


Alien Defense Squad: the Beginning

by minnabird



Series: Alien Defense Squad [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:05:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minnabird/pseuds/minnabird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver Wood and Martha Jones know secrets that ordinary humans don't know. Their worlds are about to collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alien Defense Squad: the Beginning

Two pairs of feet splashed through a puddle, upsetting the upside-down image of the surrounding buildings with the night sky peeping between. Precious few stars to see in central London, even in a dark alley like this one, but none of the three currently pelting full-speed over the asphalt was thinking about the stars.

They rounded a corner and came to a halt, the pursuers spacing themselves across the mouth of the alley so as to give their quarry no room to escape. The cornered offender started to protest, the fan-like crest down the center of his head opening and closing in agitation. His eyes, startlingly pale in his bright red face, darted around, looking for a way to escape.

“It’s no good,” the woman said, satisfaction in her voice as she leveled her gun at the blowfish. “We’ve got you.”

“Listen to her. She’s a smart woman,” the man advised, brandishing a length of polished wood. “Now, you can allow us to escort you to your vehicle so you can leave this planet now, or you can resist and we’ll detain you in our holding cells indefinitely. Your choice.”

“Who are you?” the blowfish asked, narrowing his eyes. “There’s no Torchwood in London anymore. That’s why I came here. What gives you the authority?”

“I’m Dr. Martha Jones,” the woman said.

“Oliver Wood,” said the man. “Alien Defense Squad.”

**8 MONTHS EARLIER**

Oliver Wood pounded on the door to Adam Grayson’s house. “Magical Law Enforcement! Open up!” he shouted.

Two weeks ago, a Muggle lorry containing a shipment of potatoes had suddenly got punctures in all of its tires at once while driving along a lonely stretch of the M1. Even more mysteriously, when the driver checked on his cargo a few minutes after pulling over, he found the whole shipment gone – disappeared without a trace.

It was a mystery to the Muggles, anyway. Their bafflement had been outspoken enough to draw the attention of Magical Law Enforcement, and they had assigned Oliver and his partner Walter Corby to the case. The answer to the “how”, which had so baffled the Muggle police force, was simple enough, at heart: magic. The real problem for Oliver and Corby to work out was who, and for Merlin’s sake,  _why_.

The choice of a Muggle vehicle to steal from suggested a crime of opportunity, not well-thought-out, or perhaps desperation (“For what? Enough chips to feed even a giant for a few days?” Corby had joked). Breaking the Statute of Secrecy, especially so flamboyantly, was a serious crime, punished harshly by the Wizengamot, and a clever criminal would have chosen something quieter. It was likely their perpetrator lived or worked nearby, and was familiar with cargo-loading and transportation spells.

Oliver had found a man meeting exactly that description, who lived not far off that particular stretch of motorway and worked in the shipping department of a major London cauldronwright. Corby wouldn’t be happy Oliver had gone off without him, but Oliver wanted the man in custody sooner rather than later.

“Open up!” he shouted again. When he received no answer, he blasted the door open and entered, wand at the ready.

Lounge: cluttered, but empty of people. Kitchen: same. Child’s bedroom: also empty. That brought Oliver at last to what must be the door to Mr. and Mrs. Grayson’s bedroom.

He opened the door slowly and edged inside, gaze sweeping over the room as he gripped his wand tighter. Rumpled bed, dressing table piled with various odds and ends, a standing bureau that had not closed properly, the sleeve of a robe caught in the gap between doors. No sign of Grayson.

That robe sleeve might be simply another instance of Grayson’s tendency towards mess, or it might be evidence of a hiding place hastily chosen.

Oliver stepped slowly towards the bureau, making the smallest amount of noise possible. He had to force himself not to hold his breath. He might need it if it came to a fight. Three feet away…two feet…

“ _What the bloody hell are you doing in my bedroom_?” came a thunderous voice from behind him.

Oliver spun, casting a Shield Charm as he did, by reflex. In the doorway stood a red-faced man wearing scuffed-up blue work robes. His nearly-invisible blond eyebrows were furrowed, his eyes wide with indignation.

“Magical Law Enforcement,” Oliver said. “Are you Adam Grayson?”

“I’m not answering a single damn one of your questions until you tell me what you’re doing in my house. I hope you plan on compensating me for the damage to my door.”

“ _Reparo_ ,” Oliver snapped. “If you can’t do it, I will.  _Are you Adam Grayson_?” he demanded, steel in his voice.

Grayson’s hand went to his pocket, and that was enough for Oliver. He wasn’t allowed to use force unless there was an immediate danger of the suspect using violence against him, but he’d rather this didn’t become a brawl, especially as the man was strong as an ox and just about as subtle, and his spellwork was likely the same.

“ _Stupefy_!” Oliver yelled.

* * *

“ _That man_  is not our thief,” Corby ranted, index finger stabbing the air as he pointed towards the interrogation room where Grayson was sitting. “ _That_  man was attending a party for his wife’s birthday when the theft happened, which at least a dozen witnesses will attest to.”

“It was an honest mistake,” Oliver said.

“It was a  _newbie_  mistake,” Corby said, voice quieter but no less exasperated. “The times when Magical Law Enforcement could go around arresting people willy-nilly were gone before you ever joined up. The wizarding populace isn’t willing to let the Ministry do whatever it wants, and this kind of conduct  _will_  get you in hot water, sooner rather than later.”

“Okay,” Oliver said sullenly.

“I’m just looking out for you,” Corby said. “You’ve got to start checking your facts before rushing off.”

Oliver nodded tightly, and Corby clapped him on the shoulder and opened the door to the interrogation room. “You’re free to go, Mr. Grayson,” he said.

* * *

“Where’s the signal now?” Martha Jones said into her mobile.

“You’re practically on top of it,” Mickey replied. “Few feet more – damn, it’s moving! Heading north on that street, can you see anything?”

“Hold on,” Martha said, spinning round, eyes taking everything in. “There! There’s three blokes running.”

“Get after them,” Mickey said. “Go, go, go.”

Martha was already running, and didn’t bother telling him so. She needed to save her breath. She passed a lorry stopped slantwise on the street, its tires deflated. She was catching up the latter two men, but the first was well ahead of all of them. She was drawing abreast with the two men – pursuers, it seemed like, just like her – when the first bloke turned into an alley. She rounded the corner just in time to see her quarry turn on his heel with a sharp crack and disappear into thin air. Martha bent over with her hands on her knees as she tried to regain her breath.

When she raised the mobile to her ear again, Mickey was saying, “…Signal’s gone. It’s just…gone. What happened?”

“We’ve figured out what kind of alien tech he’s got, would be my guess,” Martha said. “Some sort of…transporter.”

The other two men caught up just then, and she noticed they were wearing flowing robes. Either humanoid aliens or very odd freelancers, she thought (you never knew, really, when you were dealing with freelancers).

“Gone,” the younger of the two said.

“Yeah,” Martha replied. “Disappeared,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Who are you lot with, then?”

The two men frowned at each other.

“I’m Martha, Martha Jones. I’m a freelancer,” she volunteered. “Used to be with UNIT, though.”

“UNIT?” the younger man asked.

“Unified Intelligence Task Force.” Martha looked between the two, incredulous. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of UNIT. Chasing aliens and you haven’t run into them yet?”

“I’m afraid you’ve got us mixed up with someone we’re not,” the older man said blandly.

“What makes you say it’s aliens?” the younger man demanded, cutting across the other. The older man quirked an eyebrow, and he said, “Well, it’s…they exist, yeah? They’re not just a problem for Muggles. And, you know, maybe they can make things happen that look like things that…our lot do.”

“Look, whatever  _your lot_  are,  _this_  involved some pretty serious alien tech,” Martha said, trying to take charge of the situation. “The signal my fiancé picked up was really strong. If you’re going to try and deal with this bloke when you don’t know anything about aliens… _don’t_. Let me handle it. I’ve got plenty of experience.”

The younger man was looking at the older one, clearly willing him to let her help. The older man shook his head, sighing, and looked directly at Martha. “I’m sorry, but we can’t do that. We can’t let…outsiders in on our cases, no matter how helpful they would be.”

“We could get permission from Robards,” the younger man insisted.

The older man thought for a moment, and then shook his head again. “He won’t allow it. We’re here to protect the Statute, not break it ourselves. Go get a team of Obliviators.”

The younger man huffed in annoyance and stalked farther into the alley. He twirled on his heel, and then disappeared in the same manner as the man they had chased. Martha jumped at the crack, and raised her mobile to her ear again. “Mickey, you said the signal was gone? There wasn’t another?”

“No, why?” Mickey asked.

“Then I just saw a man disappear without help from technology,” Martha said, swallowing hard.

She heard sounds of frantic typing in the background. “That’s impossible,” Mickey said. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” Martha said as the older man locked eyes with her. “Can’t talk anymore, gotta run.” With that, she snapped her phone shut and took off at a sprint.

* * *

The evening had started out with a stroke of extraordinary good luck: Oliver and Corby had happened to be making enquiries at the cauldronwright where Grayson worked when a Muggle lorry had skidded to a halt outside, tires punctured. Their hunch that it was one of Grayson’s co-workers who’d committed the theft seemed to have panned out, and they ran outside and nearly had him before he even managed to steal anything. But then he’d seen an opening and taken flight, quick as a flash.

They’d lost both their man and a Muggle witness to the event. Robards was not going to be happy. The only way to salvage the situation, as Oliver kept telling Corby, was to try to get Robards’ permission to ask the Muggle woman’s help. Corby steadfastly refused.

“Just find out where the woman lives and send some Obliviators,” Corby ordered at last.

Corby’s mistake, Oliver thought several minutes later, was in expecting him to meekly do as he was told. Corby had an enduring naïve hope that  _this time_  Oliver would listen, but Oliver wasn’t prepared to just knuckle under when he  _knew_  he was right.

Oliver found Martha’s address right enough, but instead of sending Obliviators, he’d decided to pay her a little visit. Maybe learn more about these aliens.

* * *

A persistent knocking woke Martha from the drowse she was having on the sofa.

“Can you get that?” Mickey called from his office, where last she’d checked he was looking for signs of the signal from earlier.

“I’m getting up,” she muttered at both Mickey and whoever was at the door. She crossed the room and yanked the door open. “You!” she said, and grabbed the man and dragged him inside before he could change his mind. “You can go have a seat on the sofa and tell me who the hell you are.” She pushed him towards the sofa and shut the door behind her, placing her back against it to make sure.

The younger of the two mystery freelancers stopped in the middle of her lounge and turned to face her, arms crossed. “I’ll answer your questions if you answer some of mine. Deal?”

“Deal,” Martha said.

They sat down, Martha in the armchair, the freelancer on the sofa. Martha broke the silence first. “What’s your name, then?” she asked. “You’ve got mine, might as well give me yours.”

“Oliver Wood,” he replied.

“I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but this isn’t really a great time for niceties. You disappeared without any help from alien technology, or not any kind our sensors can pick up. I want to know how.”

“I’ll tell you,” Oliver said, leaning forward, “if you can track the alien thing from before down for me.”

“My fiance’s working on it.” Martha nodded towards Mickey’s study. “It’s tricky – the signal goes in and out. Disappears from one place and shows up in another, and a lot of the time it disappears entirely. We thought it might be a transporter, but if our guy is like you and can disappear without alien tech, well, that sort of begs the question: what does he have? Whatever it is, it gives off a  _really_  powerful signal. I wouldn’t be surprised if UNIT’s trying to track it.” She paused. “It also begs the question, are you affiliated with him? Are you both members of the same alien species? I don’t know all there is to know about aliens. No one could. I know there are some that can time travel by riding a certain kind of radiation; why not a kind that can transport themselves without the aid of technology?”

Oliver laughed shortly. “We’re not aliens. I can tell you that. I’m as human as you are. If I tell you much more – if I tell you how we transport ourselves, for example – well, I could be in a lot of trouble if anyone finds out. Life-in-prison kind of trouble.”

“I can keep a secret,” Martha said, smiling.

Oliver shook his head. “My offer, to tell you how I can disappear if you track this man. I’m not sure I should have made it.”

Before either of them could try to renegotiate that point, a shout came from Mickey’s office. “Picking up the signal again!”

Martha rushed into the room, Oliver behind her. She leaned over Mickey’s shoulder, eyes scanning the screen. “Canning Town. Residential street, it looks like.”

Oliver, too, was looking at the screen. “I know where that is.”

Mickey turned in his chair, startled. “Who’s this?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Martha said, and bent to kiss him. “We’ve got to run.” She dialed Mickey on her phone, and he answered it. “I’ll keep this on, like usual. Keep me updated on the signal’s location.”

With that, she and Oliver ran out of the house together. No discussion needed. Martha was after the tech and Oliver was after the man, but they were headed the same way.

Martha was halfway into the car before she realized that Oliver had stopped on the sidewalk instead of getting in on the passenger side. “Well, come on!” she said.

“You want to take  _that_  thing?” Oliver asked.

“Well, it’s faster than walking,” Martha said impatiently.

“He’ll get away if we take that,” Oliver said. “Come on, I know a faster way.”

She eyed him. Was he suggesting  _showing_  her his mysterious method of transport? She wasn’t sure she trusted him well enough, but then again, he was right. Whoever their man was, he was fast - in and out in a flash. It was by lucky chance alone that she’d come so close to catching him last time.

“All right,” she said, getting out of the car. “What do I do?”

“Let’s just…” Oliver looked around. “Back inside, okay?” He tugged her back through her front door, and before she knew what was happening, a squeezing sensation overtook her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Panic was just beginning to set in when the constriction suddenly disappeared. She looked up, panting, to find herself on a dismal street lined with dilapidated terraced housing.

She raised her mobile to her ear. “Mickey? I think I’m in Canning Town. How close to the signal am I?”

There was no answer.

“Mickey?” she asked again, then lowered the phone and took a proper look at it. “It’s dead. It had a full battery.” She held down the power button down, hoping the mobile would turn on, but it didn’t. “Damn it!”

“Should’ve warned you,” Oliver said apologetically. “Muggle stuff doesn’t really work very well with…” He waved a hand vaguely, as if reluctant to tell her what exactly that had been.

She’d question him later. For now, she had work to do. “Guess we’ll have to do this without Mickey’s help. Which do you reckon?”

“That one,” Oliver said, pointing at a house two doors down from where they stood. “Lodgings for…my lot. We get a lot of trouble from this place.”

“So we just go in there and start knocking on doors, is that it?” Martha asked.

“No, we go in and ask the landlady if she has any lodgers who work in shipping,” Oliver said. “We’ve worked out that much about our man. She’s usually helpful because she knows we’ll make trouble for her if she isn’t.”

* * *

Three wrong flats later, and they were out of names.

The landlady, a solidly built woman called Madam Sikorsky, hovered in the hall as they were leaving. “There is…” she said, and gulped nervously. “There might be someone else.” She clenched her hands in the skirts of her robes as Oliver and Martha turned towards her.

“Yes?” Martha prompted gently.

“Adelphus Llewellyn. ‘E lodges with me. Worked for Nimbus, up until a couple of months ago. They fired ‘im…something about stealing a load of broom handles. Funny sort of thing to do, isn’t it?” She shook her head and lowered her voice. “‘E’s been acting odd since before they fired ‘im. Running out at all hours. One of the boys said he’d seen ‘im hanging about an old shed near the water.”

“One of the boys – not one of the ones we talked to?” Oliver asked.

Madam Sikorsky shook her head. “Geoffrey Talbot. Nice boy. ‘E lives in number five.”

“Cheers,” Oliver said, and they turned back.

* * *

Geoffrey Talbot was indeed a nice boy. Obliging, but wouldn’t say what he did, which probably had something to do with whatever Oliver had whispered in his ear before they could ask any questions.

He led them through the streets of Canning Town, down to some abandoned-looking docks. Before them was a shed that had seen better days.

“In there,” Geoffrey said.

“Thanks. Really,” Martha replied. “We’ll take it from here.” Martha watched Geoffrey go, and when he was a safe distance away, she turned to Oliver. “Right. We don’t have any information from Mickey, but then you’re not used to that. Have you got any sort of weapon? Best to be safe,” she said briskly as she pulled out her gun and gripped it, ready for action.

Oliver drew what looked like a polished stick from his pocket. He nodded at her, and she eyed him dubiously. Was he serious?

“Remember how we got here?” Oliver asked, holding her gaze. She nodded. “It’s all down to this.” With that, he started towards the shed, holding the wand like a gun. Martha pushed the questions away again – not the right time,  _focus_ , Martha – and followed, alert for movements.

They burst into the shed together, the flimsy doors scant resistance, and stopped, staring at what was inside. Heaped almost up to the ceiling, filling half the small room, were bars of what looked like, but couldn’t possibly be, gold. Surely not. That would be like finding a diamond in a coal scuttle.

She heard a scuffling in the corner nearest her and whirled, gun trained on the source of the noise: a skinny fellow who looked barely out of his school years, sandy hair flopping into his eyes. Impressive name…not so impressive in person, if this was Llewellyn.

A shout came from Oliver – “ _Stupefy!_ ” – and she turned in time to see a red beam of light shoot out of the stick he was holding. She looked over her shoulder to find Llewellyn slumped on the floor.

“What the hell was that?” she yelled, flabbergasted, turning her gun on Oliver. She shifted, wanting to run, but she had a  _job_  to do, damn it, and this was why you picked your allies more carefully. That was always her problem. Running off with strange men who promised to show her interesting things.

Not perhaps the best comparison; the Doctor had only ever had good intentions, and she wasn’t sure about Oliver.

“I think you’d better tell me just what that thing is and who your lot are,” Martha said, nodding towards the wooden stick.

* * *

“So,” Martha said from where she sat on the floor of the shed, back against the wall. “ _Magic_.” She grinned up at Oliver suddenly. “How brilliant is that?”

Oliver sat down next to her with a sign. “You can’t tell them I told you. Well, you can, but you’ll have your memory erased and I’ll be in trouble.  _Bad_  trouble. Guess my partner was right.”

“Memory erased, eh?” Martha said. “I know some people who can do that.”

“Muggles?” Oliver asked, surprised.

“Yep. Ordinary, human…Muggles. It’s some sort of drug. Jack won’t tell me how it works.”

“If Muggles can do that,” Oliver said, “and you thought Apparition looked like alien technology…I wonder why we even bother with separation anymore.”

“Not all of us can do that,” Martha said. “It still seems like magic to most of us. Those of us who know better protect those who don’t.”

“You need any help with that?” Oliver asked.

* * *

_Excerpt from the private journals of Dr. Martha Jones_

Oliver’s speaking to his boss today about our plans. Fingers crossed, though if they say no we’ll do it anyway. It’s just better to be aboveboard with at least one of the governments.

Llewellyn’s off to their prison, too, so I’d better put down the facts at last, now that we’ve lost any chance to get more. Adelphus Llewellyn found a bit of alien technology near his home in Canning Town. The wizards couldn’t work out anything about it so they left it to rot in the archives. Luckily for me, Oliver’s pretty sharp, and he managed to smuggle it out so we could have a look at it. As far as we can tell, it can transform one sort of matter to another. Llewellyn’s testimony suggests it can only go nonorganic to organic and organic to nonorganic. He, of course, chose to go the organic-to-nonorganic route. We’re not quite sure what he thought he was going to do with all that gold. He’s clever, but he doesn’t have much sense, you know?

Weird stuff going on lately. Sightings have been picking up at an insane rate, and Mickey’s been getting an odd sort of energy from Canning Town. I have a feeling this isn’t over yet. I just hope we’re ready for whatever’s coming.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my good friend Julia. I do plan on continuing this series, I just have to figure out what happens next. Also, slight AU: just for simplicity's sake, in this universe the Harry Potter series does not exist because it is the universe in which Harry Potter is a real person. I know, I know, renders the whole saving the Globe Theatre with Shakespeare thing slightly less badass. Just pretend they shouted, I dunno, "Aslan!" or "Chrestomanci!" or something.


End file.
